When Claudir returned, Arya had just finished her tale.

"And I suppose your father has nothing to say about your gallivanting around the Marches with a sword instead of keeping track of the family fortune and studying your letters like a proper girl?" Greyt took a drink. He had drained the rest of his second glass and was now working on a third. "Does he approve of your stay in Quaervarr, I wonder?"

"He doesn't say anything about it, since he doesn't know I'm here," Arya explained. She was still working on her first glass-Arya had never been fond of strong drink. "You and he are estranged-he'd never think to look for me here. And Quaervarr is remote, even if it is only a full day's ride from Silverymoon. I was wintering there, and he'll expect me to have gone farther out of his reach, not run to an uncle I hardly know and my father hardly tolerates."

"You are very candid," Greyt said with a little frown. Then he smiled. "I like that. Reminds me of me, in my fiery youth." He reached over and took his golden yarting from the sideboard-clearly, it had been placed purposefully-and strummed a chord. "Now I'm just an old man who likes music. I want none of your father's rash anger or politicking, but I am a doting uncle. You're free to stay here in Quaervarr as long as you like, but if Everlund's knights come knocking, my doors I won't be locking." It was a musical line.

Arya bowed. "I understand," she said. "Thank you, Uncle. I ask for nothing more."

"And that you shall have," Greyt said, amused at his own wit. He stood with a flourish. "But please accept my invitation to dine here tonight. Claudir… set an extra place, if you would."

The steward piped up. "But sir, I have not prepared-"

"Ah, three extra places," Bars corrected.

"Don't you mean four, Sir Hartpaunch?" Derst countered. "You'll need two."

Claudir blanched. "But sir," he said, "I have only enough in the storerooms-"

"Do not trouble yourself, Goodman Claudir," Arya said. "We must decline your generous offer. We have business at the Whistling Stag, and if we're to keep a low profile, we shouldn't dine in such luxury as your, ah, beautiful home." She wasn't sure those last words were true, but she said them for the sake of etiquette.

Greyt inclined his head. "Quite acceptable," he said. "I wish you a good night."

Bars and Derst rose to leave and Arya turned away. "As soon as we pay Speaker Stonar a visit, and ask him to keep our presence a secret-" she said.

"Oh, that's a shame," Greyt said. "He's just gone to Silverymoon-he left yesterday. You must have passed him on the road."

Arya's face fell, but only for a moment. Then her smile was back and she shrugged. "Well, I suppose that saves me a visit, doesn't it? Well met."

"Sweet wine and light jests, until next we might meet," replied Greyt.

It was a version of the traditional elf farewell, but it struck Arya as inexplicably unnerving.

The three moved toward the door Claudir had opened for them. Greyt sank back onto the couch, seemingly lost in thought. The knights, pleased to be free of the tense situation, made their way out.

"Oh, Arya, niece," Greyt called.

Arya was startled despite herself. "Yes?" she asked, turning and looking between the shoulders of her two companions.

"The Stag, did you say?" Greyt asked. He looked like he was making notes in his head. "Excellent choice. Good food, better wine, and excellent company and service. Known all over the Marches. However, it's not the best place for keeping your head below ground."

"What choice do we have?" Arya asked rhetorically.

Greyt laughed, a musical sound. "Quite true, quite true," he said. "In a town such as this, small as it is, the best inn is the only inn. How silly of me." He waved them on and turned his attention back to his wine.

Arya smiled, nodded, and turned away. Somehow, she felt uneasy telling him where they were staying. She dismissed the feeling, though, and left the room.

As the door was closing, Greyt's grin slipped into a considering frown.

He saw right through Arya's act. Though it was probably true her father was looking for her, she was hardly the directionless runaway. So Silverymoon had sent some of her own to converse with Speaker Stonar. He vaguely remembered Stonar mentioning something about missing couriers.

What was Taern Hornblade playing at? Or Lady Alustriel herself? Had they discovered the magical barrier? Or was this a battle at home? Could Stonar be raising support against the Lord Singer? Greyt didn't know the nature of Arya's visit, but he intended to find out.

Hers was a tantalizing situation, and one that could be used to his advantage, if he could only decide how…

"Unwise…" a voice whispered in his ear, but Greyt dismissed it with a tsking sound.

He beckoned to Claudir with a surreptitious wave.

A pair of invisible eyes watched impartially.

"You know your way out, I imagine," Claudir said in his stuffy voice. Arya nodded. The steward cleared his throat and went back into the sitting room, shutting the doors behind him.

The knights were silent for a moment.

"You almost gave it away," Derst said. "He may suspect our true intentions."

"Hmm?" Arya wasn't paying attention.

"You didn't tell him about the missing couriers," Bars observed. "Stonar never would have gone to Alustriel for help if Silverymoon had still been able to contact-"

Arya perked up. "What?" she asked, feigning distraction. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

Bars took the hint.

Derst didn't.

"You remember, the couriers?" he prompted. "The real reason we're here?"

Arya slapped Derst lightly on the side of the head. "The real reason is to hide from father," she hissed. "There just happen to be two real reasons. Who told you about the couriers?"

"The same person who told you," Derst replied indignantly, though he had the sense to keep his voice low. "Alus-Ow!" He shook his foot where Bars had stomped on it.

"Let us adjourn, and go to dinner," Arya said, her voice at normal speaking volume. Then she added, in a terse whisper. "Where certain ears that do not need to hear certain things will not, right, Sir Goldtook?"

Derst furrowed his brow but then shrugged. "Indeed, Lady Sir Venkyr," he said. "I am famished myself. I heard they were cooking some excellent venison at the Stag this eve. Shall we?" He put out his arm for Arya to take.

"Famished, eh?" Bars asked. "That's what happens when you don't eat for a month and become a stick." He shoved Derst away and put out his thick arm for Arya to take.

"Only because you ate all the month's rations, bulbous rothe," Derst pushed Bars aside and put his own arm back out.

Arya threw her hands up with a sigh and stomped off toward the door by herself, leaving the two casting angry looks and flashing obscene gestures at one another. She threw open the door and almost stumbled into a frowning Meris.

As it was, Arya barely avoided falling, but she still ran bodily into him. A package wrapped in water-stained leather fell to his feet. The two staggered for a breath, and Meris's strong hands grasped Arya by the shoulders. He righted her and pushed her away, none-too-gently, with a low growl.

His frown disappeared when he caught sight of her face. "Cousin," Meris said, as though recognizing her for the first time. "Anya, wasn't it?" He scrutinized her closely. His former angry expression had become cool and calculating.

There was an edge there-something about the gleam in his eye-that unnerved Arya more than any frown would have.

"Arya, if it please you, Cousin Meris," the young woman said with an awkward bow.